


Absent

by machka



Category: Bandom: MWK, Bandom: The Anthemic, Real Person Fiction, Tulsa Gangstas
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-28
Updated: 2008-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machka/pseuds/machka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'd already resigned yourself to settling for something less.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absent

**Author's Note:**

> It's short.. But [**kaia_kyrial**](http://kaia-kyrial.insanejournal.com/profile) thought I should post it, and I simply cannot refuse her anything. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. The events described therein are not intended to represent actual events. No libel or defamation is intended in posting said fictitious work.
> 
> In other words, it's not real, because I made it all up.

"So, Dave...any of 'em ya like so far?"

Neal's question is casual as he hunches over his guitar, but you can feel his gaze, and you know he's studying you intently from beneath his eyelashes.

And for a moment, you don't know how to answer.

It's late. Your head is pounding, a combination of exhaustion and the echoes lingering from an endless succession of drummers. And yet, here you sit, behind the drum set yourself, rolling a set of sticks between your palms, killing time before the final audition.

"Man, I dunno," you reply, staring down at your hands, and tap out a little staccato on the tom-tom. "I mean, they're all _good_ and shit, but..."

Your voice trails off as you shift restlessly in your seat. Swiveling the stool minutely side-to-side, you begin a soft drumroll on the snare.

"But?" he prompts, and your rhythm falters.

You force yourself to look up from the kit, meeting his eyes. Reading your heart there, he gives you a sympathetic smile.

"...They're not him," he finishes for you, and you nod wearily.

\----------

No, none of them are him; none of them even compare...and you've been feeling his absence more acutely today than ever before.

Still, you suppose you should be happy -- at least you've got Andy and Neal. You're lucky they're there at all.

Neal, well... You figure it's because he's different, unusual, _edgy_ \-- a throwback to the balls-out grunge-metal gods you'd loved as an impressionable teen; and he exudes such a dangerous air that it makes even the 19E A &R reps' panties soak through.

Oh, sure, his piercings and tats draw more than enough attention, but in more of a "fascinated horror" sort of way -- he gives your band the rebellious swagger that the public expects rock acts to have, he's hot enough to reel in the captivated bad girls, and dirty enough to make you "safe" for the good girls to worship, and that's what makes him acceptable.

Andy, now... he's the pretty one, the shy one, a minor star in his own right, but perfectly content to hover in the background while you take center stage... It endears him to your fans, but so long as he steals none of your thunder, and doesn't threaten 19E's carefully-crafted image of you as the sexy-yet-sensitive rock-god? They'll allow him to stay.

You'd expected more objections. You'd expected tons of excuses. You'd been ready to fight, tooth and nail, to bring all of your friends along... but you've since come to realize that in this industry, image is the only bottom line that matters.

\----------

"Hey, guys?"

The intern's voice startles you out of your reflection and you fuck up the syncopated pattern you've been playing, nearly fumbling your sticks. Neal snickers from his corner, and you give him a dirty look.

"Last one for the night, guys..." the intern continues, glancing back and forth between the two of you. "You ready?"

Sighing heavily, you push off the stool and force the brightest, fakest smile you can muster.

"Yep, sure thing! Send 'em in."

\----------

You hadn't been prepared for this.

When the suits had sent in their final victim, you'd been expecting something completely different -- a big burly guy, maybe; perhaps a career studio musician with the right connections, or a bored and jaded pretty boy with the right look and just enough bicep to make the girls swoon...

Instead, they'd sent you a kid by the name of Peek, all skinny arms and long hair and slight build and you can't help but roll your eyes and wonder what the fuck they were smoking, because, by God, you want some too.

You quickly dispense with the small talk, because it's late and you're tired and your head fucking _hurts_ and you can't possibly see what this kid has to offer.

So you show him the chart to "Bar-ba-sol," and he studies it a moment, head cocked thoughtfully to the side, before he nods sharply and hands it back to you. He rocks on his stool once, twice; inhaling and exhaling, and then the pedal hits the bass drum with a solid thump that jars your brain, and his sticks smack across the tom like a shot, setting up this absolutely obscene swing-beat that immediately calls to mind the image of a stripper, bumping and grinding her way across a stage.

And he's into it, so _deeply_ into it, that's he's drumming not just with his arms, but his entire body, totally in the moment and totally uninhibited, and if you thought you'd missed him before, well -- this kid reminds you so much of Josh right now that it's tearing at your heart.

And you still wish to God that Josh would've come, would've auditioned, would've _played_ for you; but he's been in the business longer than you have, and you both know the truth.

Josh is good -- damn good. Fuck, he's the best you've ever worked with...but he's not young enough, not dangerous enough, and not pretty enough to satisfy the shallow needs of the 19 Entertainment corporate machine.

So you've endured the steady parade of pretty boys, thrash-metal rejects, and Tommy Lee wanna-bes with a grin so tight it was almost a grimace, and found each of them lacking when compared to him.

You'd already resigned yourself to settling for something less.

And now, watching this kid, you're beginning to think you might not have to.

You've been wondering whether his name is real, or merely a reflection of him doing just that -- continually peeking out from behind the curtain of hair that covers his face and flies around his head as he plays.

You decide it's completely irrelevant when this kid --- Kyle is his first name -- stares out at you with those eyes from behind that mane, shooting you a look that pierces right through you, and you can feel your heart stutter in your chest.

This kid may not be Josh, but he's damn close.

You don't dance, not at all; but somehow you find your shoulders swaying, your hips shifting to his beat, and Neal's grinning at you like a madman as his head bobs along, and he's cranking out these raunchy power chords that compliment the kid's -- Kyle's -- rhythm perfectly, and you know you've found your fourth man.


End file.
